


The Broken Piano

by UnholyHelbig



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Piano, Spooky, ghost au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-06-07 15:07:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15221834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnholyHelbig/pseuds/UnholyHelbig
Summary: The piano that sat in Beca Mitchell's childhood home went untouched until a certain Red Head brought it back to life, even if something very undead was attached to it.





	1. Chapter 1

**The first time**  I saw that piano, I hated it. I hated every single thing about it. A piano… Jesus, there was no duller instrument than that. It was large and bulky, it was impossible to work with- something that was dropped from windows in old printed cartoons about a cat scrambling after mice.

It was a Fazoli- a ginormous standing instrument that rested on the edge of our family room for what felt like years. It's matte black finish and edged golden letterings caught the rays of a slowly setting orange sun. A sun that would blur the sheet music and warm the white and black keys until a sweat formed against my temple.

My father had bought the piano on a whim, it looked nice sitting in the display window and he needed an excuse to cart it into our home. I was that excuse- the lessons didn't come cheap and neither did the instrument, but it helped me string together certain melodies and underlying tones.

Janet Celant was a horrible piano teacher. She was retired, retired for a long time before her mind got the better of her and she started making house calls at half the price to appease her unsettled life. I wasn't quite sure if she was a fossil or just a cranky old woman- but damn did she love that ruler.

I would practice the scales over and over again until my fingers became sore and my ears blind to the melodic tones the grand piano produced. She would use a wooden one- slapping it across my knuckles until they bleed feverishly- the wine color balancing against the stark white keys and dripping down the black paint, staining the carpet more than once.

 _"It's a part of the musical experience, Beca."_  My father had made excuses for the woman as he shoved ice into a Ziploc bag  _'The piano is an instrument that requires calmness and discipline. Mrs. Celant can teach you that."_

I didn't say anything. Not for the longest time. In a way, he was right. I stopped fumbling with the keys and only struck the notes when the sheet music was interrupted with the right symbol. My fingers- they shook, afraid of that ruler she balanced in her fingertips. Even after she died, I trembled.

I played at her funeral… Janet Celant didn't have very many friends. A few old teachers that had retired to houses in Florida or Myrtle Beach. They had trekked all the way back to Georgia to attend the service of a woman they once knew, one that continued to instruct piano to me and one other boy, a boy who drank more than he was worth and popped Adderall to focus on the music that she instructed- so that left me. It left me to play Amédée Méreaux,  _Étude Op. 63 No. 24_. It was hardly a tune one should play at a service, but it was her favorite.

Part of me wants to assume that it's ironic- me ending up here of all places. Sitting in an old house with an even older Fazoli. An instrument that was too hard to move, too hard to cart away and too valuable to scrap in the nearest junkyard- the very structure of my family home crumbling away to the mercy of time.

My legs started to lose a bit of feeling as they hung off the edge, boots a deep black compared to the stark white of a carpet that hadn't been spot-cleaned in ages. They laces were slightly undone, but manageable- a simple black t-shirt that I wasn't sure I even owned clung to my back, jeans that were almost as blue as the winter sky that complimented them.

I had a lot of time to stare at them, to wonder why I had been placed here in the first place. My knuckles scabbed over as fresh inklings of blood ran down my fingers. Blood that shouldn't be here, because fuck, I hadn't played the piano forever. I gave that up after high school, traded the sheet music for mixing equipment much to my father's dismay.

But yet, here I was, sitting in an empty house. An empty home that was once filled with memories and warm sunshine, even with a broken family and dark tendencies it was still home. Home until my father gave it over to the bank and started living with his new skank of a wife down the street from Barden University.

 _"You need to keep your focus steady, Rebeca."_  Mrs. Celant's mantra repeated in my mind once more. The way she used my full name and lisped through her red painted lips.  _"Even in life, keeping focused will be your downfall if you continue like this, you hear me?"_

I suppose she was right. Focus was the key to everything, and my mind tended to slip more often than not. When it came to work I was always determined, but driving was a different story. It was always boring to me, just like the piano- which I suppose would explain the slip up on a near icy road, a bridge that had a blinking sign, one I noticed too late because  _I wasn't focused_. I wasn't focused and neither was the driver ahead of me.

"No, this place is amazing," The voice rang through the house, my heart catching in my throat as I jerked my gaze up from those damn boots, the boots I had worn during the crash- just not as bloody and torn. That voice, that voice wasn't mine and no one else had stepped foot into this damned house since I've been here, however long that was.

The front door creaked out, loud and strange compared to the silence that was suddenly broken. I hopped from the piano- soles of my shoes soft as I shoved my hands in my pockets, peaking over the edge of the drywall that I had knocked my head on plenty of times as a kid whipping around the corner in socks.

The golden sun caught bright blue eyes in a way unimaginable, a taller woman with crazy red hair stood in the doorway- a pair of running shorts and a tank-top hugging her lean figure. Her features were soft and caring, even with her turning back to her friend to check that she was still following.

A taller blonde was following, her red shirt standing out against grey eyes that were so stark against the pop of color that they were almost an olive green. She was almost as tall as the red-head, her stance stronger and edgier as she got a look around the main living area.

I leaned heavily against the frame that connected the two rooms together, the piano sitting desolate behind me as I crossed my arms over my chest- staring the two down. There was no chance they couldn't see me, right? I didn't know what the hell I was, or on what plane I existed on, but these two girls who looked more like students than anything wouldn't be able to see me.

"Chloe, it's covered in dust." The blonde spoke, voice dark as she shut it with purpose, engulfing the house in a deep coolness that I couldn't say I craved after all this time. She ran a pointed finger against the edge of one of the built-in bookcases, taking a long string of dirt with it.

"You stress clean all the time, Bree." The girl defended, a certain likeness to her voice that made my stomach churn. "It's better than tossing cookies, alright?"

The blonde's eyes hardened at the mention of vomit, but she didn't' say anything to her counterpart. Instead, she directed her attention to the piano. The very piano that I was suddenly feeling very territorial over. Not like I even enjoyed the thing, but I was attached to it- or at least I think I was. I had seen enough episodes of Ghost Whisperer to know that I was linked to something.

"There's a piano here," She spoke, striding right past me as the scent of peppermint filled my lungs. I clenched my eyes shut, missing that smell. Missing anything that wasn't musty and old like this damned house. That was all quickly quelled as soon as the blonde girl pressed G sharp. I gritted my teeth- forgetting about the vibration that rushed through the room every time a note was struck. "God, it needs to be tuned."

"It's fine," I mumbled, shoving my hands in my pockets as I got a better look at the girl. She was pretty, really. A little uptight, but pretty. Kind of like the strings that graced the interworkings of said instrument. "Why are you here?"

The question was projected onto deaf ears. Neither girl could hear me. Not Bree or Chloe. Even with them standing in the middle of an old place like this, I still felt the pang of being forgotten… maybe that wasn't the best word for it- alone. I felt alone.

"Aubrey, we need a house for the Bella's," Chloe said, walking to join her friend by the instrument. "Yeah, it's a bit of a fixer-upper, but it is in our price range. It leaves enough in the budget to actually make the repairs."

"What do you think we could get if we sold this thing?" Aubrey said, lifting an eyebrow. I drew in a sharp breath, biting the inside of my lip. Hell, I would sell it too if I had the chance, but with my soul clinging to it like this, I would hate to see it go.

"We are not selling that piano," Chloe said, straightening her back as she changed her stance on the situation. "It's just another sign of why we should give this place a chance."

"You and your signs," Aubrey grumbled, plopping down on the upholstered seat that went with the piano. "They only get us into trouble, you know?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little disclaimer, I've seen a few comments asking if Beca is dead. She is! I'm super sorry if that wasn't clear enough, but for the people asking- hell yes, Beca has moved on as much as she can. Please keep posting reviews, I work super hard on these and I love it when I hear what you guys think!

**I ran my** fingers over the keys, each deviation of white was separated by a sharp pitch color. It always seemed too trivial to me that the note to that was furthest left was a simple  _'C'._ If it was so important to read through things in everyday life from left to right, then why would a piano note start with the third letter of the alphabet?

That was one of the main things that I argued when I first started to play. It was never the way I was shoved against a corner wall to keep my back taut and straight while playing- or the way large textbooks were placed around my toes until they pressed the pedals with utmost precision instead of a trembling mess that I suffered through when I first started. It was the separation of the notes and how they were placed.

Of course, that was never Mrs. Celant's fault. She was just a senile old piano teacher who enjoyed torturing her students for fun... maybe it wasn't just for kicks and giggles, but every time she slammed that wooden edge against my soft skin and broke it into a million scarred pieces I thought I saw a hint of joy in her grey expression. No matter how many times she would preach about turning me into a child prodigy, and how it was for my own good, I would never believe her. I was fifteen. Way past my prime when it came to getting into Julliard.

Chloe seemed to feel the same way- about the piano and instruments in general. The young redhead had only signed the lease over in the school's name for about a day before I realized that she didn't have a certain affinity for anything that produced a sound other than her own throat. She had a lovely voice. The blue-eyed girl would hum different tunes absentmindedly as she cracked open a paint can of the dullest white color I had seen. It was better than the olive green that made the study look drab and dreary.

"This can be like an office or something," The tall blonde said as she leaned against the doorframe, her deep grey eyes glinting with something I could only describe as discontent. " _If_  we get rid of that piano."

"What?" Chloe stood from her squatting position, my eyes scanning over her muscular frame. Both women were pretty well built, the Georgia heat pressing against every inch of the house- so much so that they had cracked the windows and the door in order to let in some fresh air. I didn't mind- I missed that signature scent of the sun and freshly mowed grass. I wasn't quite sure what these women did for a living, but it left them toned. Toned enough to peak my undead interest.

"Aubrey it's a  _Faz-o-li_ " She sounded out the words, making animated hand gestures at her friend. She wasn't sure of how to pronounce it, cerulean gaze flashing over the gold label that rested beneath my right leg. I instinctively scooted further down the instrument, my position blocking the words. It didn't' seem to matter much anyway. "I think it tells a story, and it's important that we keep it here."

The blonde huffed, "Chlo, it's just a piano."

"One that was clearly was loved." She said, running her fingers over the black polished lid. The motion left four uneven streaks in the dust that had collected over the top. She didn't make an attempt to brush the offending dirt off, instead, she stared at the discoloration that graced her fingertips. This piano wasn't loved- but it was used. It was used into late hours of the night, I had even lost part of my innocence at this very instrument. "I'm not letting you sell it."

"Good," Aubrey let out a sigh "We can just donate it then, think of all those foster children that would love an opportunity like this."

" _Aubrey,"_ The smaller woman tried once more. I had a feeling she was trying to use her most intimidating voice. She sounded less like some fairy or sprite and more like a normal human being who felt pain. It was enough to get her counterpart to roll her eyes and drop the subject for the rest of the night. She had settled for unpacking a few boxes in the living room- leaving Chloe to painting by herself- the storm doors to the study closed off now.

Chloe had some trouble spreading that white tarp around the room as I watched with a curious eye, staring openly at the doors she had closed to isolate herself from Aubrey. Something about that person was closed off and guarded. She had the need to get everything perfect- just like Janet Celant. A younger version maybe. They both seemed to have a tortured past with pressure from other people running their lives. So much that they had to inflict the same standards on those around them. Chloe was used to it though.

The girl took back to humming, my back laying against the lid of the piano as I scooted myself against the closed vessel, my one leg dangling off the side as my arm rested lazily against my stomach. It hurt less this way- if I didn't bend my fingers too much the dried blood wouldn't pull at the raw skin. I clenched my eyes shut, listening to the small voices the woman produced. She had escalated into mumbling the lyrics in the same soft and supple tone that she produced. She was a natural born singer- that much was clear.

I must have drifted off to sleep at the lull of her voice- it was so soothing- that combined with the rhythmic sound of a spongey paint roller lulling me into an uneasy slumber. Part of me felt like a bit of a dog before Chloe and Aubrey got here- just spending my days mulling over old memories and sleeping. It was always struggled and forced, but never too uncomfortable- now, with the scent of paint filling my lungs, it was a different story.

_"Beca you don't understand." Dr. Ian Mitchell struggled to get his only child to listen to the drunken words that he was spurring. They were slurred and uneven- just like his steps. The man's eyes cruel. He was an okay guy when it came to three or four drinks; charming even, but after the six whiskey mark, he became detached from the rest of the world. "I loved her."_

_"You don't think I did?" The brunette hissed backed, her voice tight with envy. How could he of all people, even in a beligerate state, claim that he was the only one to share feelings for Claire? Claire of all people. A loving wife and mother that wanted nothing more than to protect Beca- to raise her right. "She was my mother!"_

_"She was my wife!" He brought an open-handed slap against the edge of her cheek, the girls watery eyes trained on the same spot by the edge of that damned Fazoli. It was mocking her at this point, her skin hot from where he had struck her- the professor's attention drawn back to the crystal bottle of amber liquid her raised back up to his touch._

_Beca knew her father wasn't in his right mind. The illness had taken a toll on the small family. They had caught the cancer too late- stage four. The only thing Ian and Beca could do was make Claire's last few months on this earth happy and tolerable. She was in a lot of pain but smiled through all of it. Something the young girl had admired, even when she was left here with a drunk father who had no idea how to handle his own grief._

_"Sit down," Ian demanded in a low voice as Beca tried to swallow the metallic taste of blood that collected in her cheek. She raised her midnight gaze to his._

_"What?"_

_"Sit down." He demanded, voice harder as he stepped aside, raising his eyes to the piano's red stapled bench. "I want to hear you play."_

_There was a lump in her throat and a ringing in her right ear. She didn't know exactly what he wanted her to play, but at this point- anything would do. She didn't protest as she shakily lowered herself onto the seat- positioning herself in front of the keys. She ran the pads of her fingers over them briefly, not pressing down hard enough to create a melodic note. Instead, she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Ian Mitchell could wait._

_He did. He waited until she could tune a string of notes into her mind. She settled on Johann Strauss, the Blue Danube. It was simple enough, one of the first pieces that Celant made her master. The tone was deep and melancholy compared to the work of Mozart or Macdowell's. It seemed to do the trick- Beca struggling to regulate her breath as her father slumped down against the simple leather chair in the corner of the room, listening to his daughter play._

**The air that** filled every inch of my throat was toxic, a snort escaping her throat as she jolted up with a start. I didn't know I could sweat- the nightmares always producing an unsettled feeling but never being enough for her to break past discomfort. This was different though, it wasn't the dream that had stirred me, it was the scent.  _The paint_.

I was panting, staring down at a mess of red hair, but not ocean blue eyes. They were closed, Chloe looking as if she was in a deep slumber, she was turned on her side. Her chest was moving up and down but barely. Just barely. It wasn't normal. If I could feel for a pulse I knew it wouldn't be strong. Not strong like it should be.

"Shit, Chloe." I hissed, raising my finger to my hairline. She hadn't cracked a window. Earlier when Aubrey shut off the study door I was sure that the Auburn-haired girl had reached back over and cracked it. If she hadn't, I never would have allowed my own eyes to grow heavy with exhaustion. There wasn't much I could do- not in this... this state.

Regardless, I hopped off the piano, my feet hitting the fabric coated ground. The girl was coated in paint, a little it of white stain hitting her hairline and getting tangled in locks of crimson. A dull crimson that was slowly growing harder with its steely color- fucking hell, the girl must have fainted and slammed her head against the very Fazoli she wanted to keep.

A _ubrey._

God, it left a sour taste in my mouth to crave the attention of the girl. My whole body aching at the thought of another life perishing and being trapped in this damned house. I was beginning to think this place was cursed- and not just because of me sitting on the steps the night of prom just waiting for a woman who never showed up due to keeping a reputation that was shattered a month and a half later after she was found shoving her tongue done Cathy Castelli's throat.

The heat that filled my chest wasn't something I had felt in a long time. Maybe after a few shots, or right when I would pull over on the side of the road to stray away from an accident[a great deal of good that did me] while tears streamed down my face. But this? This was different and warped.  _I needed to warn someone_.

"Stay with me, Chlo," I mumbled, stepping over her, even though I was sure she wouldn't feel me anyway. I didn't know the extent of what I could and couldn't do- I didn't necessarily want to test any of this stuff out. I would rather sit here and sulk in my inevitable purgatory than struggle to test my limits. Now seemed a good a time as any.

The doors were varnished in an unforgivable white, windows spread apart in rows of three. It was easy to see past the two-paned glass and into the hardwood living room- it should have been easy for Aubrey Posen to turn around slightly, realizing that her best friend was spread across the floor in need of an ambulance and some dire stitches. The young woman had headphones placed over her ears, dancing around quite childishly to whatever song blasted through the speakers. I would have to be loud.

" _Sack up dude,_ " I mumbled, shaking my hands out. Maybe, just maybe, if I focused hard enough I could push the doors open long enough to catch the woman's focus. Or at least to get some fresh air into the red head's lungs. These doors were never hard to push open, a simple shove and they would spring open just to press against awaiting drywall. I would puncture a hole in the wall if I had to.

A breath escaped my lips as I clenched my eyes shut, struggling to steady myself as I raised my trembling hands in front of me. It was simple really, I was hoping with every ounce of my being that if I shoved hard enough I could actually make some type of motion. My arms extended quickly, palms meeting the cold surface of the door- they rattled, hinges shaking but not giving away from the pressure.

Shit.

My jaw clenched until I could feel a dull sting against my temple.  _You need to keep your focus steady, Rebecca._ That witches words pressed against the inside of my brain once more as I rolled my shoulders back, trying not to pay attention to the incessant pounding against my ears. This was it- this one shove was all I had left. I needed to put everything into it. If not for me, then for Chloe.

Once again, I shoved forward, this time with my whole body, my shoulder coming in stark contact with the cool glass as I rammed right into it. They swung open- loudly at that. I stumbled forward, not being able to steel myself against the air that opened in front of me, my body pressing against the adjacent wall as I grasped for some balance. I was struggling to catch myself- Aubrey springing up straight as she whipped around to face the room.

The blonde would question the sudden action if it wasn't for the outstretched hand of Chloe catching her gaze. Even from here- she could see how pale and damaged her friend was. "Oh my god, Chloe!" She gasped, shoving her headphones from her ears as she tore her way to the study, my chest heaving up and down as I watched from the hallway.

The drywall was cold against my back as I sunk lower to the ground, letting my knees fold under me. Aubrey was struggling to grasp at her phone while tears dripped against her flushed cheeks. "Hello? Yes, I need an Ambulance to 1237 Willow street. It's my friend- She's not breathing."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I got a few questions. Mainly about how Ghost Beca really works... In short, Beca's spirit is attached to that piano. So she's confined to the whole of the house; she can lean and sit on things without making an effect- but if she really wants to manipulate something physical then she really has to use a lot of her conscience and energy to do so. It's not something she can just do- hence how long it took to push open the door in the last chapter.
> 
> Anyway, please keep leaving reviews!

**The way Chloe's**  eyes shown reminded me of a flickering flame despite their stark blue color. There was no dismissing the way she struggled to keep a positive attitude about her. Even with a few stitches against her skull and a deep purple bruise stretching under the sticky side of a few bandages. Her arm was wrapped heavily around Aubrey- hugging her close at the blonde struggled to hold up her friend as she locked her car door.

My knees were pooled against my chest, bent as my hand rested lazily. I was curled up on the one window seat in the house- the only plausible place in this old structure that gave me some sense of comfort. Mrs. Celant would have to copy old pieces down on blue lined paper until my wrists ached and stomach churned from lack of food. I was supposed to memorize the notes, feel them with every touch of the pencil to parchment. If I couldn't do that, then I couldn't be a reliable musician.

I would sit here all day- feeling the sunset against an odd horizon as the sky leaked pinks and blues. They would shade the colors in such an odd hue of purple that I would stop staring at the notes until they became blurry and unhedged. My head would lean back, and I would breathe through the pain.

Now, I only gazed down as Aubrey dragged Chloe up the steps to the front door. I tuned the two of them out after that, lost in my thoughts as I ran my fingers over the edge of the scabs formed near my knuckles. They stung, they stung cruelly and unhinged- part of me knowing I couldn't ponder too much about it, ironically Chloe had moved into my old room, knowing that she would soon curl up in her bed and shut the world out for a long while.

I shifted my position, crossing my legs in front of me as I placed my hands in my lap, rather partial to hiding the scars that ran deep instead of paying my full attention to them. I watched the stairs- following the noises and listening intently to Chloe's incoherent mumblings and sentences that the blonde struggled to sooth. Even I had to admit, Aubrey was a good friend, even if she was blaming herself for an incident that no one could have prevented.

"Can we still paint the study white?" Chloe asked as they reached the landing, my head cocking to the side. There was a mix between weighted footfalls and light airy ones. Aubrey was the latter. My chin lifting slightly as I waited for an answer that couldn't be short of entertaining.

"White is a hideous color, Chloe." She said, a hint of laughter tearing at her throat. It was a shocking statement. Someone as tedious and straightforward as Aubrey would have named white as her favorite color in only the second grade. Nothing about the girl had been shocking except for this- making me wonder if there was something more hidden beneath that meticulous forest gaze. "But the answer is no,  _we_  are not doing anything."

"I'm not paying painters," The redhead grumbled, her back facing me as she whipped around to give the taller blonde a pleading look. "Aubrey, I think I've learned my lesson. Don't seal up a room when you're painting it. I'm more than capable-"

"Uh," The woman held up a pointed finger, cutting her friend off with a mix of exasperation and worry. It looked like she was scolding her child after they were caught with their grubby little fingers knuckle deep in the cookie jar. "You might be more than capable, but you're still on a few weeks bed rest. Doctors orders."

"Your doctor is your cousin," Chloe groaned, waving her hands sporadically in front of her face. "Kelley would say anything you told her to, just fancier because of the whole medical degree thing."

"You mean her Ph.D.?" Aubrey cocked a pointed brow.

"Whatever," Chloe grumbled, clearly distraught over the prospect of being off of housework duty for a few weeks. She liked fixing up this old dingy place as far as I could tell- the two of them vibe well off one another- but I knew if it came down to it, Aubrey wouldn't be afraid to put the usual foot shoved up her ass, down.

Aubrey decided to let the conversation die as she turned her friend by the shoulders, fully intent on shoving her towards the back room that was still filled with about ten or twelve cardboard boxes yet to be unpacked. They were all branded by a different pen or marker- Chloe having trouble keeping track of something for more than five minutes at a time, especially when packing.

However, Chloe stuttered. Not in her words, she wasn't talking, but in her movements. I watched carefully with an eyebrow raised as She dug the heels of her boots into the soft plush carpet that lined the hallway. Knowing them, they would get rid of that too- but for now, it remained.

The ginger's face was flushed- even more so than usual. It was apparent that the tape adhered to her skull was bothering her, but that wasn't enough to get her skin crawling. I, however, was.

For the first time in, however long I had been here, I made direct eye contact with another person. My breath leaving my throat quite forcefully as I stared into electric blue pools of fear and worry- those same eyes that I thought I would never get a moment to admire or study up close. They had little gold flecks in them that reflected off the equally as spoiled sun- something I never would be able to see if she hadn't been staring dead on.

 _She can see me_. "You can see me?"

The questioned echoed in my mind mere moments before pushing past my conscious body. She gulped down a big heaping of air instead of answering, even though I had mine right there. It was unspoken and hash, but I knew with every ounce of my half- alive being that Chloe could make me out sitting right on the windowsill. She could see me.

"Chlo?" Aubrey's words were soft as she squeezed her friend's shoulder slightly, a certain amount of worry in her expression. It took another soft flex of her fingers before the woman tore her stare away from mine and to the blonde. "You okay?"

"Uh," She sounded out, syllables cracking under the pressure. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just got a little dizzy, I might have to lay down after all."

Aubrey nodded, not wanting to wait any longer as she wrapped her arm back around Chloe's waist, my lips still parted as I watched the two with little to no conviction. It was rude to stare, I know, my own subconscious playing tricks on me. I was dead- you think the second-hand embarrassment of being caught gawking at a beautiful woman wouldn't raise fiery heat to my cheeks- but you'd be wrong. Instead, I stared openly and without shame.

The taller woman struggled with the door as she turned her back to Chloe, who had her brow lifted in pure shock and frustration. Her cerulean eyes would flick back to Aubrey every couple of half-seconds, puzzled by how the blonde didn't mention the sudden presence that I carried. She wouldn't. I shifted my head slightly, lifting my shoulders.

"Can you hear me?" I asked, voice muffled and raspy. The woman's eyes flashed in fear as she flinched slightly. "You can hear me, can't you? Oh, this is great."

She turned away as Aubrey wrapped her fingers around her counterpart's wrist with ease, pulling her into the half-finished room. I watched them carefully, Aubrey pulling back the stark white duvet that looked beyond comfortable to curl up in. It probably was- I couldn't feel it if I did decide to do so, that damned piano the only thing I could actually touch without wearing myself out too much.

I still wasn't exactly sure how I had pushed through those doors the other day- not really testing my limits when it came to anything. In a way, I could still pretend that I was living. I could lay on beds and lean on walls- but nothing noticeable to the human eye. Not unless I focused unless I really focused just like I had to when the fear of losing a distraction-filled me in every way. At this point, Chloe could be more than an interesting.

"Alright," Aubrey said, having successfully tucked the red-head in. "I'll check on you every single hour. But seriously, don't hesitate if you need anything. Okay, Chlo?"

The girl looked so young- the fabric of her comforter pulled up to her chin as she shivered from the contrast of her chilled skin with the heat of the newfound layer. She was so tiny compared to the large four post queen bed that she settled into. I leaned against the doorframe, watching with contempt. Her stare kept flicking past Aubrey's shoulder to me.

"Okay," She whispered, mind scrambling for reasonable answers, mine drifting as well. She reached out and grasped her arm, holding the older woman in place "Thank you, Aubrey."

"You're welcome," She said, squeezing the hand that was wrapped around her arm. "Get some rest."

There was another nod before Aubrey walked through the doorway, her shoulder brushing against mine as my gaze followed her movements. They were quick despite the slow and touching conversation she had just shared. The woman shuddered at my slight touch- letting out a quick breath before turning back towards Chloe. "Do you feel a draft in here? God, I have to give that damned realtor a call"

She didn't wait for an answer from Chloe before giving her a small smile and cracking the door behind her, I scooted from its path- not interested in dealing with the rough feeling in my stomach from sticking around in a closed edge of wood.

The quiet was overwhelming, Chloe's breath short and rapid as she stared at a blank spot on the white painted ceiling. Everything smelled so musty- so old compared to the rest of the house. This room was abandoned way before my father got married and moved away with some skank in the brushes of Georgia. After I moved out her refused to come in here- after I died he left it on the market and never stepped foot in the house after the movers took what they needed.

I shoved my hands into the pockets of those awful jeans, not wanting the scare the girl with those nasty scars. "you're not real." She trembled, biting the inside of her lips "I'm hopped up on morphine."

"They gave you morphine for a few stitches?" I mused "You hate needles that much, Red?"

She swallowed roughly, not paying me much mind. "I'm tired. I'm stressed. Remodeling this old house is stressing me out. This is a mental breakdown."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" I teased slightly, pressing my back against the wall as she finally flicked her gaze towards me. She was running her icy stare over my whole entire figure, it made a rough chill move through my spine as I stared her way- happy to have someone stare at me instead of through me.

"Mental breakdown," She affirmed, taking her hands and pushing herself up so her back was pressed against the backboard. The blanket pooled in her lap as she played with her fingers, not wanting to focus. "You're some form of my conscience, right?"

"Chloe, I don't have the best judgment so I'm not sure if you want me to be your deciding factor in anything." I waved the idea off. "Besides, isn't a conscience a mini version of you on your shoulder or something?"

"You watch too many cartoons." She mumbled, running a hand through her hair. Her fingers were unsteady as she let out a strangled sigh. "I am crazy, aren't I? I mean, Aubrey couldn't see you… Why couldn't she see you?"

I drew in a long breath, staring up at the ceiling. An uneasy cold moved through my core. "You got hurt."

"Yeah," She sounded out every single syllable. "But I'm fine."

"I'm not," I said, mouth dry and unforgiving. I swallowed down the anxiety that made my jaw ache and shoulders tense under the pressure of a conversation I never envisioned having. Not with someone who still had a beating heart anyway. My stare moved up to hers.

"I didn't think my conscience would be so short anyway," She grumbled, playing with the hem of the blanket as my stare hardened slightly. I shook my head, the edge of a smile on my lips. She was nervous, shifting in her seat as she bit the inside of her lip. She knit her eyebrows together.

"I was there when you fainted or fell, or whatever happened." I stumbled, starting to pace as I crossed my arms over my chest. I stopped by the edge of her television, turning around as I got lost in thought, my stare pressing against the carpet. "I mean, I'm always there. There's not a reason for me to be anywhere else…"

I paused, my eyes flashing up to hers.

"Chloe, you almost died, and I think when you did it made it possible to see me." It sounded crazy, everything about this sounded crazy. But I was also linked to an old Fazoli in a 50-year-old house.

"I'm sorry, what?" She squinted, parting her lips slightly.

"That piano," I said, voice gravelly, "I think when you hit your head on that piano it brought you closer to my world. Close enough that you can see me."

She was silent, her breath held in her throat. Chloe's whole body threatened to shake with tension. She was curled into a small ball at the head of her mattress, her chin resting on her knees. I could tell she hadn't thought of the dangers of painting in a sealed room or how close to her demise it really brought her to.

"And what are you, exactly?" The sullen girl finally asked.

"I'm Dead."


	4. Chapter 4

"You can't just ignore me," The words pushed past my lips for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last eighteen hours. Eighteen hours where I was starting to regret the feeling of actually gaining someone's attention. Because fuck, Chloe Beale was not the type of girl who wanted anything to do with me. Not in life, or in death, it seemed. Fact was, the young woman could ignore me. She could ignore me until we were both blue in the face and my throat grew sore with the constant pleading.

The metal clad spoon she held within her grasp dipped into the cloudy mess that was left in the bowl of half-picked at cereal. It was some sugary concoction of way too bright colors that swam in liquid. It was all soaked through by now; the milk having a nasty grey tint to it. I watched her carefully; back leaned close to the counter as she scooped up yet another spoonful before tilting it sideways and letting it slosh into the bowl.

"You know," I stared, folding my arms against my chest. "When I was alive, I was very good at pestering people until I got what I wanted."

That wasn't true, but I didn't trust the redhead enough to fact check the ghost anchored to an old piano. I was a quiet person; someone who wouldn't speak out against hating the instrument, or the pain that flicked through every ounce of my being each time a haggard woman made her discontent known. Or when my father turned the half-empty bottle to his lips until it was fully desolate. Instead, I took it. I took it all in stride until I didn't let anyone,  _or anything_ , affect me.

It wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth the protest at a little discomfort. There were worse things, and I would be able to leave it all behind after a few strangled years at a community college out of servitude to my professor father. He did have a Ph.D. after all, and no child of his would evade a higher education for some hack dream of becoming a Disk Jockey.

Chloe's crystal eyes glared up at me with that one. She was white knuckling the silver spoon, letting its sharp edge digging into her skin as her jaw clenched just as hard. For being a peppy girl, she had certainly seen better days; dark circles under her eyes as the bandages that covered a nasty row of stitches began to blacken where the adhesive had folded.

"You don't say." She hissed through a taut jaw.

"What was that, sweetie?" Aubrey entered the kitchen then, her heels clicking against the near-perfect hardwood. They made her gain a few unnecessary inches. Tall and goddess-like in her movements. She wore thick cut blue jeans that popped near her bright red shirt- a leathered jacket being just right for a windy summer day in Atlanta.

My head cocked to the side at the sight. She was stunning. Both of them were, in all honesty. I had never gotten a glimpse of them in anything other than sweatpants and maybe even a sports bra (in a non-invasive way, of course). But today, the more uptight of the two was dressed up for something fancy. She was rushing around the small half-finished space like a chicken with her head cut off.

"Nothing," Chloe straightened her back slightly, not leaning her full weight on the little island of the house. It was fairly new- the two of them have invested in redoing the counters and painting the cabinets a deep eggshell that really brought the place out of the 1980's and into the 2000's.

She earned a concerned glance from the woman who had opened the fridge by now, pulling out a bottle of unmarked water. Her fingers never shuddering away from the cold as she slowly closed the door with a dull thud- a rush of icy wind moving through me. "Chlo, are you sure you're okay with me heading out there today?"

"Please," The ginger waved her hand wildly in front of her face with an overexaggerated scoff. My brow cocked as I watched her squirm under the question. "You've had these plans set up for like, ever." She pondered the time frames. "I don't want you to cancel on your brother just because I'm clumsy."

"Right," Aubrey pulled her bottom lip between her teeth as she stared her friend down. There was evident worry on those clear-cut features of hers. Her usually bright eyes faded to a deep hazel that looked tired themselves. I wasn't sure if either of them were even sleeping at this point- having a habit of keeping to myself when night fell.

It was a habit I always seemed to keep. Something about the phrase "Midnight" always seemed to settle unwell with me. Nothing good happened after the clock struck twelve. People were crazier, believing that they were invincible under the power of the moon and a little alcohol.

The lanky blonde had pulled herself closer to the girl who kept glancing at me out of the corner of her stare. She folded under the slight touch that Aubrey applied to the side of her face- tilting it to get a better look at the large gash that was just starting to heal with the right amount of care. "Doctor Mallard said to change out the bandages today at eleven. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Bree" Chloe chuckled, taking her friend's hand in hers as she lowered it down to an acceptable level. "I am not an invalid."

"I suppose," Aubrey let out a thick sigh as she grasped her bottle of cold water once more, rounding the island to grasp a dark leather back that she slung over her shoulder with ease. I had never seen someone move with such fluid determination before. Now she would make a good piano player. Chloe's mouth was agape at the near insult. "No more painting with the doors shut, okay?"

She snapped her jaw shut, nodding with exaggeration as the taller woman turned on her heel quick enough to give anyone watching a run for their money. "Call me if you need anything. Don't hesitate, Chloe."

After a few labored seconds of silence and a couple of promises to let her know if anything was wrong Aubrey had left the house. She was careful not to slam the door- afraid that maybe, just maybe, the house would crumble under the rapid pressure of too much force. It wouldn't. The walls not falling in, or floor opening up to the pits of hell; instead, it was just quiet. So quiet that I could barely hear Chloe's shallow breathes, my attention flashing back to her as she squeezed the bridge of her nose between her forefingers.

I opted not to say anything. There was nothing to talk about. Not on my end. I had made my case countless time in the last few hours; just wishing someone would hear me out after such a darkness settled in with the feeling of being alone. The sensation was cold and untouched deep within me. It had been chipped away at ever since the girls bought the house a month ago- but it never went away. I wasn't sure if the ice in my veins would ever thaw.

" _You are dead_." Chloe's voice startled me as my stare moved up to meet what I thought would be hers. She didn't move. She hadn't moved since I let my mind wander and gaze focus on something else. "My family, they're uh, they're Catholic, you know."

I stayed silent.

"One hundred sins, or one, you would end up in hell. If… if you were a good person and went to church if you sat in those pews next and shook hands with people who were only there because they were preparing for death. Then, then maybe you would get into heaven. I've confessed my fair amount of sins and begged forgiveness but this? Is this some type of cruel punishment on my end? Did I play too close to death?"

I swallowed thickly at the eerie stillness in the air. "Death isn't a train track, Chloe. You can't blame it on nearing the pathway that it rumbles down. Hell, you can't do anything except for welcome it and just… just live with what comes next."

"That's ironic."

"Yeah, well, so is this."

She let out a deep sigh, placing both her hands on the granite countertop as she finally met my stare. Her eyes were pain-filled. They told a story of a lost ship at sea, the blue so dull that it was almost grey- or even violet at this point. "Do you think this is punishment?"

"For you, or me?" I asked, toying with the hem of my shirt.

Chloe drew in a sharp breath, "Both, I suppose."

"I wasn't a bad person." My voice cracked as she didn't' alleviate her stare. "I donated blood when I could, and, and I always tipped at least 30% even if they were the shittiest waiter I have ever had. So I'm not sure… about the punishment part. Maybe it's just cruel fate."

"How did you die?" The next question pushed past her lips like venom. I had thought about it, all the time I thought, and all the time I would remember little things about a road…flashing red and blue lights that morphed into a sickly purple against the rough asphalt. And classical music- classical music that calmed me still blasted from the speakers until it just didn't anymore.

There was pain. A lot of unadulterated pain that I can still remember as a ghost over my skin. It was worse than when the ruler would come down on already opened wounds and blood would splash across ivory keys. Worse than when glass cut across skin from a broken bottle of beer thrown- frothy alcohol cold as it soaked into the stitched fabric.

"I uh, I can't remember."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a very good chapter... but anyway I'm still in love with this story so I would love to hear what you guys think!

**There was always** a myth behind the colors that slathered the walls of the house. The palest of blues and sharpest of reds had a story attached to them just like the feelings that they conjured. My father always had a reason for slathering a certain hue onto drywall, and most of Georgia seemed to agree with his reasoning.

Soft yellows were used for living rooms, to calm and quell until it was enough to let the human body relax itself into leather seating. Deep crimsons were reserved for kitchens to create a steady beat against the inside of your wrist as adrenaline ran wild. Greens used strictly for bathrooms and closets. But the one that intrigued- disturbed- me most was the Haint blue.

The powdery color was slathered across the ceiling of the large porch that wrapped around the front of the house. It was unsightly, something that stood out among the black pained shutters and white rafters. The rocking chairs that rested right by the once extravagant front door would create a direct viewpoint of the color.

When I first asked him why he had spent so much time covering the roof with paint, he told me it kept the bugs away; it kept waxy nests from accumulating in the corners of the space. But even the summer heat didn’t’ quell the insects- and eventually, I swallowed back my pride and asked him the real reason. The real method to the madness.

“It keeps them out.” He said softly, leaning backward in his chair until it let out an ungodly moan- a real southern man sipping on lemonade as condensation ran down the glass. “The Spirits.”

I blinked at him a few times, mostly out of curiosity. He was a sound man, a college professor working off a tenure that was given to him when I was only five years old. An educated human that could tell the innate difference between a palindrome and an emordnilap. A man that revealed in the oaky scent of imported cigars wrapped in gold foil and leather-bound books that were yellowed at the corners. Certainly not someone to play into an old southern legend of spirits being hindered by a _color._  

My legs had lost feeling at that point, I refused to sit like a lady and he seemed to forget about that as if only for a moment as he leaned his weight on the front side of the chair, letting it rock forward with a groan. I played with the plastic bit at the end of my shoelace, not truly wanting to stare at him as the heat licked against the side of my neck like the devil's rancid tongue.

“Like ghosts?”

He fretted then, using the back of his hand to wipe away the beads of sweat that clung to sagging skin. My father set the glass next to him on the glass-topped table that sat between us. He didn’t’ bother with coasters, a thick layer of pollen hueing the surface in a soft yellow. “My child, there is no such thing as ghosts.”

“Spirits then?” I asked dumbly.

“Souls that have no damn clue where they’re going next.” He licked his dry lips, sugary and acidic from the packaged lemonade. “My house isn’t a buffer zone. The color scare’s em’ away.”

I dropped the conversation then. I was only eight. I had seen my father get into one of his moods, usually after he created a warm bath of alcohol in his own mind. He let his southern accent leak out and overpower whatever prose he took in Europe during his semesters there.  He made no sense but got a hazy look in his eyes like he had written the forward to his next book. I left him alone.

Haint blue was a pretty color. One that could so easily keep a spirit away just as it kept me in. The porch wrapped around the front and now deteriorated under long strings of Boston ivy that clung to every crack in the foundation. Aubrey made it quite clear she hated the way it made the place look.

“We can repaint it,” She said, unceremoniously shoving mouthfuls of noodles into her mouth.

It was the most reckless I had ever seen her. She was curled up on the tarp-covered sofa, feet tucked under her as strands of blonde hair fell from her messy bun that had taken her three times to master. She was in sweatpants and a Barden shirt that did nothing but reminds me of the bricked buildings and years spent deteriorating there. A grease soaked take-out bag sat between her and Chloe, the two of them trading off little white boxes of rice and sticky chicken covered in sesame seeds.

Chloe had gotten good at ignoring me completely. Almost as if I was a conscience for her instead of a trapped dead girl that sat on top of the coffee table in the center of the room watching them both talk, she dug her chopsticks into the messy knot of brown noodles and fried egg. “Why would we repaint the ceiling?”

“It’s an eye-sore.” Aubrey leaned forward and set her container down on the edge of the table, I eyed it for a moment. Maybe I could move it, push the rice onto the carpet and really give blondie something to stress about. Something told me that would prolong my jailed existence with the only woman who could see me, so I pulled my legs closer to my chest. “The paint is chipping horribly.”

I could see Chloe chew her food slowly like she was contemplating something. She had slowed down immensely on making improvements to the house in the last week. Aubrey had pinned it on the accident, and part of me believed that it was. She flicked her gaze towards mine for a split second, shooting it back to her food before I could even register her movements.

“I don’t know, Bree. I mean, don’t you think we’ve made the house presentable enough? Maybe we should chill on the do-it-yourself projects for a bit.”

“ _Presentable?”_

She broke the word into more syllables than I thought possible. It was like venom for her, dripping off her tongue and burning chemical spots into the sofa that they sat in. Chloe didn’t even flinch at the tone, probably used to the shrill nature that the woman presented.

“I just think we should honor its original structure.” She said nervously “Maybe keep some things the same? It’s a beautiful place.”

“I think you’ve been cooped up in here too long.”

“It’s growing on me, is all.”

“Let her paint the roof,” I said, catching Chloe’s attention. She didn’t look at me, but she froze, a slight stall in her breath as it picked up under my tone. I wasn’t dark, I wasn’t pushing. I hadn’t said a work in the last week. Instead, I blinked at them, at Aubrey.

Chloe drew in a simple inhale, dragging her fingers through her hair. It was beyond curly, she had gotten from the brass shower before Aubrey walked through the door with Chinese takeout and a couple of groceries. She drank almond milk, but I wasn’t surprised.

“What color are we painting it?”

Aubrey beamed, reaching into the bag as she shook her head at her friend. Of course, Chloe had yielded. It was, unknowingly to her companion, two against one. She was holding back on something that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. I watched as she shoved a fortune cookie Chloe’s way before tearing into the thin plastic casing with her teeth. She looked like a wolf, hungry for words.

“A cautious person leaves no stone unturned.” Aubrey frowned at the small piece of paper. “Lame.”

She balled it up into a little slip between her forefinger and thumb before flicking it into the brown bag. It made an odd sound against the empty contents. Chloe broke apart the hardened dough of the cookie, pulling the two even halves away as she scowled at her paper.

“What does yours say, Chlo?”

“Keeping focus will be your downfall.” Her words were confused, raising an octave as she scanned past each word. She was squinting at such a tiny piece of parchment. The cookie was forgotten on her lap as her stark blue stare moved up to her roommate, her roommate that just shook her head and shrugged her shoulders innocently.

The thing they don’t tell you about being stranded between planes is that pain still carries. It’s not something you can feel physically. It’s more like a sharp ache that punches across your ribs in a startling realization. Hard enough to stint my breathing, my feet pulling out from me as I knocked innocently into the box of white rice hanging onto the edge. Barely a nudge but it sent the container flying to the floor.

Aubrey jumped, and Chloe gasped, eyes meeting mine as the blonde let out a string of curse words and leaned over to her side, shoveling rice into the container with the side of her hand sloppily. Chloe lifted her eyebrows, she mouthed something at me while Aubrey was preoccupied, but I was never very good at reading lips.

I had heard those words before. They were accompanied by a sharp sting to the hands as the piano cover came crashing down upon my knuckles. The ruler was a welcome gift after that day. A repeated phrase that my piano teacher seemingly wanted me to engrave in permanent ink across my arms, so I would trace them every day with my eyes on any reflective surface.

 She held the cover down until I bled.   


End file.
